Together Again
by RaphSai03
Summary: Donatello is still in love with Michelangelo, even after the orange cladded terrapin had moved on to a new romance. After Donnie confesses his love, Mikey admits that he, too, still has feelings for his ex boyfriend. Will the two end up together, or will someone come between them? Companion to Scars and Markings, takes place after chapter 17.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! This is a companion book to my series Cuts and Bruises. It falls in line with the sequel, Scars and Markings, and takes place immediately after chapter 17. I would suggest reading those stories before this, as it does reference the series.**

 **With that said, please enjoy and review!**

 **Donatello Pov**

It wasn't too late, at least not to the point where he wouldn't be answering his phone. Still, the other line rings and rings, and the longer I wait, the more my anxiety spikes.

Come on, Mikey, pick up the phone already!

He answers, his voice sounding tired and strained. "Um, hey, Donnie. You need something?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but suddenly, all words were absent, simply gone from my vocal cords and, furthermore, memory. Frustrated with myself for becoming so sheepish at the mere sound of his voice, I bang my fist against the counter.

"Don? You there?" Impatience slips through the speaker of the phone. "I'm hanging up," Mikey states when I don't respond.

"Wait!" I exclaim. He grunts at the loud noise. "Sorry," I mutter. "I just wanted to talk to you, about earlier."

"What about earlier?"

Heaving a sigh, I take a seat at the island countertop. "Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Sure I do. Doesn't change the fact that I don't understand what there is to talk about. You still love me, I'm married and have a family. Not much else to say, D."

I wonder if he's alone right now, on the deck or in a room opposite of his wife and daughter. Maybe he has me on speaker phone, and Karai is trying not to laugh at how pathetic I sound, talking to her husband about how I still love him. Does she know about what I said at lunch today? Did Mikey come home, laughing hysterically at the instance, and recite every word to his wife? I'd like to think what was said earlier in the day would remain between those who were in the room at the time. After all, it was hard enough knowing that Leonardo and Raphael had witnessed the conversation taken place amongst me and my ex lover.

"I wanted you to know that I'm sorry for saying all of that. You're right, you moved on and I should too-" Michelangelo cuts me off, a laugh in his throat.

"You think I moved on? Donnie, there isn't a day that goes by where I don't regret leaving you." Listening to that confession was like hearing a heart monitor go flat; consistent beeping, then something you weren't expecting. My heart skips a bit, and I gasp for air.

"Come again?" I ask, not willing myself to believe that he'd said. Of all the words he could've spoken to me, these are the ones I'd least expected.

He regrets leaving me? This seems like something out of a dream, not reality.

"Can we meet up? I'll come over to your house, if that's okay." How is he so calm about this? I can't even collect my own thoughts; they're racing about my head and the more I try to grab them, the faster they spin, avoiding my reaching hands.

"Uh, s-sure," I stutter, tripping over over the syllables I attempt to speak.

He hangs up immediately after my response, leaving me in a dumbfounded state.

Mikey . . . loves me. Well, no, he didn't say that, but it was implied.

Right?

I feel like a fool as I bolt through the house, ridding the coffee table of clutter and straightening my bed. Just after I'd finished tucking in my comforter, I stared down at the mattress, wondering if we'd end up here tonight. As much as I know how unlikely that would be, I can't help but think about his head on my plastron, and my arms wrapped around his frail as he snores lightly.

A soft knock on my bedroom door puts an abrupt end to my longing thoughts. I zip across the room and throw the door open, hoping to see Mikey on the other side. Instead, I'm met with another face; Alopex.

The arctic fox doesn't say anything at first, glancing over my shoulder. She furrows her brow, frowning deeply. "What's up with the cleaning spree?"

"Mikey's coming over." Then, quickly, I add, "Just to hang out, though."

Alopex's golden eyes narrow into slits, suspicion lurking in the depths of the rises. "Right. Well, I'm going to the lake." She spins around, and that's when I notice the towel slung over her shoulder.

I follow her out into the hall. "Really? This late at night?" Then a thought crossed me mind: I won't be able to do much with Mikey if she's hanging around the house. "Never mind, do what you please. Have a nice time, Alopex."

* * *

 **Michelangelo Pov**

My hands shake at my sides as I stare up at his house. I've been standing here for five minutes now, trying my absolute hardest to summon up enough courage to knock on his door. But I just can't will myself to brave it.

Standing on the other side of that door is the love of my life, the boy I feel for six years ago. I didn't just love him, I was in love with him. I craved his lips and the gentle curves of his luxurious body. I was hungry for his voice and delicate state. I wanted him all to myself.

Which is ironic, I do suppose, considering our relationship ended because I gave myself to someone else.

'C'mon, Mikey, get your ass inside,' I think to myself confidently. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. This is Donnie we're talking about. Beautiful, burgundy eye'd Donnie. The boy with hands softer than silk, the boy who can take my breath away with just a single glance . . .'

I don't know if I can do this.

It's too late, now, though, because I'm already at the door. I don't even get a chance to knock before he opens it, practically throwing the entryway off of its hinges.

His eyes are wide and full of shock, as if he hadn't been expecting to see me here. I couldn't judge, though, because I'm feeling the same way.

There's a weird feeling in my gut as I study his face and posture and eyes, taking in the sight of him. He's even cuter than I remember. His lavender mask makes his burgundy rises scream, demanding my attention. I give it to them, staring into those eyes as if they hold the answer to every question I've ever pondered.

"Mikey," Donatello murmurs in amazement.

"Oh, Donnie!" I throw myself at him, tears welling in my soft blue eyes. I leap into his arms; literally.

My legs wrap around his middle, hands clutching the back of his sensitive neck. "I've waited too long to do this," I whisper seductively.

His eyes widen while mine shut. Our lips meet in a passion filled kiss. It sends shivers racing down my spine, it fills me with energy and clarity. It mends my wounds and makes me feel whole.

I'm home again, finally in his arms. He holds me, deepening the kiss as he closes the door with the heel of his foot. I coat his neck and jawline in kisses and love bites while he carries me upstairs.

And he lays me on the bed, staring into my eyes.

"Take me, Donnie," I demand, "make me yours."

* * *

 **Donatello Pov**

I stroke his bare head, rubbing my thumbs in smooth circles across his cheek. He snores, breath light and barely audible.

He's . . . mine.

Michelangelo, the adorable, freckled, orange cladded terrapin is mine. Not Karai's or Renet's. Mine.

I pull him closer to me so I can bury my face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you, Mikey," I murmur against the warm atmosphere.

I'm worried, I will admit, of how this'll turn out. When Karai heads of this she'll skin me alive. But Leo was right; a love like this is worth fighting for.

* * *

 **So what do you guys think? Should I continue this or leave it as a oneshot? Please let me know in a review! Have a nice weekend everybody ;)**

 **— Raphsai03**


	2. Chapter 2

**Donatello Pov**

A savory aroma drifts upstairs and into my bedroom, infiltrating my nostrils. It's the first thing I pick up on when I awaken, the second being that I am alone. Alone, in my bed, after a long night of steamy sex with my ex lover. My ex, Mikey. Mikey, who has a daughter and is married to one of the most vile woman in the world.

That's when it truly sets in; I had sex with Mikey.

I jerk up and into a sitting position. My burgundy eyes are wide with horror as memories of last night play themselves over and over and again. The feeling of grinding in and out of him, his loud moans of pleasure, his lips kissing mine hungrily; it all seems so real, and yet, so out of reach.

I must be dreaming, after all, there's no way in hell that last nights events actually took place. Not to me, nothing this good has ever happened to me.

All my life I've been boring ol' Donatello. I'm known as the science geek who focuses more attention on doing machines than I do on my family and friends. Unlike the other Hamato's, I don't belong to a religion—there's just too much science to prove against it. I'm not married, not dating. I live alone, save for the occasional mutant fox who comes and goes.

I blend in well with backgrounds, melting back into a state of silence whenever possible. I rarely socialize, and I'm a screwup.

What happened last night . . . well, those things just don't happen to guys like me. That was a miracle, and I don't believe in them. In my own humble opinion, believing in fate is like believing in Santa Claus. Once upon a time it seemed real, but if you still have faith in it to this day, then you're just holding back from the truth.

Because you're afraid.

I don't get scared.

At least, that's what I'd like to say. I'm not like my big brother, Raphael, though, I'm not ruthless. I'm not fearless, either, unlike Leonardo. I can't take bad situations and mold them into something good, that's Mikey.

I'm utterly useless. The only thing I can do is recite the first 50 numbers of pi, and even that is useless in times like these.

'Did I really sleep with Michelangelo?' I question my own recollection, in defiance of the flashbacks I've been receiving. 'Yes, I did.'

And he's downstairs, singing while cooking breakfast. I can hear the soft pitter-patter of his feet sliding against the tile floors.

I want to run down the stairs, and bolt through the kitchen doors. I want to approach him faster than a cheetah, and take him into my arms passionately. I want to hear a surprised giggle escape his throat, then get cut off by a deep passionate kiss.

Instead, I trudge through the house, practically dragging my feet behind me as I enter the kitchen. Mikey turns around immediately, flashing the brightest of grins. I swear that it could blind me, those sharp rays of delight.

"Morning, baby." He chirps as he leaps into my arms.

It feels nice, holding him like this again. But at the same time, I'm too tired to think straight. After breakfast and mug or two of coffee, I'll be able to truly digest these racing thoughts that cloud my head.

"Good morning, doll," I murmur, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

He tries to pull away, mumbling something about needing to flip the pancakes, but I can't will myself to let go of him. I'm bent over completely, nuzzling into his warm body. For a moment, we both seem to be convinced that it's out of love.

But then the first wave of sobs hits.

Tears stream from my eyes, soaking Mikey's shoulder. He stops fighting my tight grasp, falling into the embrace willingly. His arms wrap around my neck, tugging me closer.

"Shh . . ," he hushes, voice gentle as it carries another set of words. "You're alright, Donnie, I've gotcha."

Untucking my face from his neck, I lift him into my arms bridal style.

His hands cup my face, forcing me to look him in the eye. "What's wrong, darling?" He asks, misty eyes full of concern.

I hate how he calls me that, and I despise the way he's staring up at me. He pretends to care about me, but that isn't possible. If he cared, why hadn't he come back to me sooner? Was my act really that convincing? No, it couldn't've been. Sure, Mikey isn't the sharpest knife in the shed, but when it comes to reading emotions, he's the most fluent of us all.

Did he read me? Is there a chance that he saw past my constant lies and thick mask? Has he always known of the feelings I still hold for him?

"I'm . . . in love with you," I mutter, my tone making it sound more like a question that a statement.

I sit him down on the table, my eyes never leaving his. My hands shift upward, to cup his face, while his drift down my neck, trailing over the curves of my arms. He touches me in a sense that you would something you find mesmerizing. He can't see me like that . . . it isn't allowed.

"Yeah, Donnie," Mikey giggles, his eyes lighting up a million watts. "And I'm in love with you." He breaks his words only one last time, to kiss my chin.

That was one of his favorite places to kiss, for some odd reason. He says it's because that's the first place his lips meet on the way up, considering my extreme height. I, on the other hand, had a fetish for smooching Mikey's neck and shoulders.

"We can finally be happy together," Michelangelo finishes with one last burst of excitement.

I let out a sigh, bowing my head as I dodge eye contact. I stare at my hands on his thighs, frowning deeply. It's wrong to be touching him like this, to be touching him at all. And last night . . . that was absolutely heinous.

Mikey's married, he has a daughter to take care of and a wife to love. So why did I make love to him? Why did I hold him in my arms as he slept? Why did I let him cheat on Karai, when I knew how horrible infidelity felt?

My mind wanders to the former foot soldier. I think of the way she kisses Mikey, with passion and sensuality. I recall all of the smiles she's given him over dinner, and the times she's reached for his hand out of mere instinct, because she's so used to holding it. Then, their daughter's adorable, chubby little face throws itself at me, looking more precious than ever.

That's their daughter, Michelangelo's and Karai's. Ellie is a product of their love, a symbol of their happiness.

I can't ruin this for them.

"We can't be in love," I state in a firm tone.

I push away from him, whipping around dramatically. My legs carry my towards the window, which I stare out with wide, twinkling eyes. I hug myself tightly and clench my jaw so tightly, I'm afraid all of my teeth might shatter.

He follows me, the terrapin dressed in orange. His footsteps are light, barely audible. But I have a keen sense of hearing, I could've heard him a mile away.

"If this is about Karai, then I just want you to know that I don't love her. I never have. She doesn't love me, either. Honestly, I think she hates me," Mikey whispers the last part, his voice sounding like a gasp against the other noises in the kitchen.

I turn my head to glance down at him, only to be met with an empty space. He's all the way across the kitchen at this point, loading food onto plates. He fixes up my usual: two pancakes, a spoonful of scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon, and a steaming mug of black coffee.

Yet another thing to love about Michelangelo, his observant mind. He notices every minor detail, and remembers it for the rest of his life.

When he sets two plates on the table, I slide into the chair across from him, burgundy eyes set to follow his every movement. The flex of a muscle, the slip of a smile. I take it all in, savoring it like candy.

"She doesn't love you?" I demand, jaw dropped slightly.

Mikey shakes his head lightly, pushing the food on his plate around, clearly bored with it. "Nope. Only reason she hasn't left me is because she needs someone to watch Ellie while she's at work."

I furrow my brow, puzzled at his words. How couldn't Karai fall in love with Michelangelo? He's the sweetest, kindest, most beautiful soul to ever live.

"That's another reason why me and you can't be together; Ellie. When Karai finds about us, she'll take off back to the city, bringing your daughter with her." I finish up a single slice of bacon, rubbing the crumbs off of my hands with a napkin. "Am I really worth losing your child?"

Michelangelo smiles sadly, his voice suddenly low and scratchy, "I barely ever see Ellie, Don. Karai makes me stay away from her, because apparently my freakish form scares her." Mikey drops his fork, letting it clatter to the floor. The sound echoes, bouncing off the walls. When it meets my open ears, I flinch.

Studying the freckled Terrapin's form closely, I come to notice tears lining his eyes. He sniffles, trying to hold back a sob. "I try to be a good dad, but Karai always takes her away from me."

That's when it happens; he snaps. The dam holding back a river of tears breaks, allowing for a waterfall to form. It seeped down from the corners of his French blue eyes, which have been glazed over with sadness so paralyzing, that I don't know how to react.

I've never been very good in these situations, I don't know how to comfort people, or make them fell better. I don't have the words to reassure them, because my mind is filled that statistics that state that once things go wrong, they'll never again be good. Everything will merely worsen.

"Mike . . ," I trail off, his name fading into a simple state of nothing. The words I want to speak are shallow, they can't help him, not in the long run.

Nothing I say in this moment seems to be good enough. So I let my words sit in the bottom of my throat, where they burn.

When nothing but their ashes remain, I clear my throat, sending ghosts of unspoken phrases flying into the air. "Look, I can't say anything about Ellie, it isn't exactly my business." Michelangelo lets out a huff. Smirking mischievously, I add, "But I can promise you, that if we ever had kids, they would love you."

Mikey's head shoots up, and his eyes meet mine, wide and full of serenity. "You want to have kids with me?"

I chuckle lightly, amused at his response. "If all goes well, then yeah, definitely," I reply, nodding slowly.

He lunges at me from across the table, arms out as he reaches for me. Our plates get shoved aside, and my coffee spills onto the floor. I couldn't care any less, though.

Mikey crawls onto my lap, straddling me. He grabs my mask tails, tugging on them, forcing my face closer to his.

My lips are brushing his, and air that smells of him infiltrates my nostrils, enlightening me.

"I love you, Donatello," he purrs.

I shiver at the sound of his luscious voice speaking my name. "I love you, too, Michelangelo."

I close the gap, pushing my mouth against his. I don't taste pancakes and orange juice and bacon and eggs, no, I taste him.

I taste him, I feel him, I smell him, I see him, I hear him.

Most of all.

I love him.


End file.
